By: Y. M. Horn, a Santa Rosa, CA freelance writer
NICE, France —“Ptui!” Like naughty children we are trying to outdo each other in long-distance olive-pit spitting. “Ptui!” Clearing the ancient stone wall that defines the circumference of the tiny perched village of Piene-Haute, sailing down over rocky outcroppings we hope, if the aim is exquisite, to hit the meandering ribbon of the Roya River far, far below. “Ptui!”
The three of us--myself, my grown daughter, Jennifer, and Katie, Jennifer’s friend since childhood--are of an age to have long ago abandoned such sport. We are on a weeklong trek through a small corner of southeastern France, walking the 16th century Salt Route along pathways trod by mule caravans transporting salt from the Mediterranean into northwestern Italy’s Piedmont region. It is an area of breathtaking beauty, culturally rich, riddled with villages perches (perched villages).
We’d planned our trek months in advance. We would start at Tende in early June, before the summer heat of the French south hits the mountains too. Tende is the highest town on the Roya in the Maritime Alps, last stop of the mule caravans before crossing into the Piedmont. From there we would make our way south through brushwoods fragrant with thyme, climb to rocky summits, descend into limestone valleys and traverse mountainsides over abandoned agricultural terraces. Tende, La Brigue, St.-Dalmas-de-Tende, Granile, Berghe Superieur and Inferieur, Fontan, Saorge, Breil-sur-Roya, Piene-Haute, Sospel, Gorbio, Ste.-Agnes--a network of about 300 miles of trails ties these perched villages and medieval towns of the Salt Route together, with a final descent into the citrus-scented gardens of Menton on the Co^te d’Azur.
The Maritime Alps are one of the great crossroads of Southern Europe. Neolithic tribes wandered what is known as the Vallee des Merveilles, a place now protected by the French government for its wealth of Bronze Age rock engravings. Germanic tribes and Muslim pirates attacked, invaded and left their marks through the proliferation of villages disguised to look like their rocky surroundings--protected enclaves situated for an eagle’s view of the danger sure to come.
For centuries, a succession of rampaging marauders continued--Ligurians, Celts, Romans, Gauls and mercenaries of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance--until a series of tug of wars between the duchy of Savoy and the French crown.
In a moment of largess in 1860, Napoleon III gave this area of the Upper Roya Valley to King Victor Emmanuel II, first sovereign of the new kingdom of unified Italy. World War I and World War II were the last to ravage the countryside. Not until 1947 were those areas reunified with France.
Coveted through the ages, this small corner above the Co^te d’Azur remains little touched by tourism. After buying French government topographical guides, we translated trail descriptions, learning that we could count on the Grande Randonnee, France’s nationwide network of well-marked paths, to take us through.
These topo-guides--which we purchased at a map store in Paris--also told us that a smattering of inexpensive, charming and clean, small hotels were located along our route. With that, we arranged to walk free of gear, our belongings transported ahead by employees of the hotels, whom we paid small amounts (less than $10 each) to carry our equipment by automobile.
For those who want to drive, a tortuous, narrow road marked by frequent signs warning drivers that there are hairpin turns ahead, links Menton and Tende. Trains also tie the Co^te d’Azur to Tende along a spectacular rail route of two hours. We took the train to Tende, where we found the countryside in full bloom with temperatures ideal for hiking compared with the already sweltering coast.
Strategically positioned at the foot of the pass connecting France’s Provence region and Italy’s Piedmont, Tende clings to the mountainside in a gloomy cascade of tall facades and slate roofs. At the top of the town are the remains of a castle. It was our first perched village of the trek, and it deserved exploration. The sun, however, was dipping toward midafternoon, and we had walking to do. Finding the trail head, we climbed the mountainside opposite Tende, through woods and grassy meadows to descend in a series of uncounted turns into La Brigue--a two-hour hike--where we would spend the night.
La Brigue presented, in a medieval nutshell, what was ahead of us: villages so very French, yet decidedly influenced by Italy. Dating from the 15th century, ancient stone houses with sculpted doors and lintels carved with symbols of old trades stood next to 18th century stucco buildings painted in ice cream shades enlivened with trompe l’oeil details and frescoes faded through the years.
Above, the ruins of an old castle. Everything is joined together via sinuous alleys where it’s a squeeze should two want to walk abreast. After a maze of delights, La Brigue finally opens to a fountain-centered square in front of a Romanesque church. Inside the church was the first in a series of musical treasures to be found along the route: organs crafted a century or more ago in Italy, instruments of such quality that some are designated by the French government as National Historical Monuments.
A short walk on quiet lanes out of La Brigue leads to the sanctuary of Notre-Dame -des-Fontaines. Nestled into a setting of larch trees and gurgling springs, it is a lovely place of retreat. Inside, however, the chapel turns artistically horrific. In one of the largest group of frescoes found in France, every available inch of space is covered with recently restored scenes painted during the 15th century by priest-artist Giovanni Canavesio, who painted the most violent episodes in the life of Christ in 38 scenes of bloody detail.
All of this, and it was only Day 1 of our hike. Lacing up our boots on Day 2, we could hardly wait to see what lay ahead.
What we found was formidable terrain that could not be classified as an easy walk. The trails we followed were well marked and maintained, yet only once during our journey did we come across another soul: a man on his way back to Granile, a village we’d just gone through, returning from a mushroom hunting expedition carrying a portabello the size of a dinner plate.
We’d entered the tiny, enclosed world of Granile via a buttercup-edged path; spooky, whisper quiet, seemingly abandoned. Yet there on an old agricultural terrace was a neatly kept vegetable garden. And in the square where we paused to eat our lunch on the steps of a lemon-yellow church, a slight movement of a shutter in the house across told us that we were being watched.
We lingered for the greater part of the day in Saorge, largest of the perched villages of this area. It is built in semicircle tiers on a hillside of terraced olive trees, the gold of its intricately tiled belfry towers shimmering in the morning sun, its houses gripping the rocks overlooking a widening in the river below. Here inhabitants were out and about, visiting under ancient stone arches, making their way home from the post office or market via flights of stairs and arch-covered alleys.
We pushed open heavy wooden doors to enter the 15th century sanctuary of St. Saveur to organ music such as we’d never heard before. Piping flutes and reedy oboes, singing strings, trumpets and timpani soared through a repertory spanning the centuries performed this day by Renate Duffey, an award-winning organist. Following the concert, I climbed a narrow staircase to the balcony at the back of the sanctuary to take a look at the organ. Expecting rows of keyboards and acres of foot pedals, I instead whipped aside the curtains to reveal the real instrument of the Wizard of Oz. One tiny yellowed keyboard, a short selection of foot pedals, a lineup of wooden dowels to push and a pull. So much from so little. I was moved to tears.
By Day 3, we’d abandoned our dedication to the marked trails: The wandering nature of the Grande Randonnee allowed little time for loitering. And it was the villages, more than the walk itself, that had captured our attention. Born of centuries of isolation, no two were alike.
Mornings found us in markets and shops choosing our picnic lunches for the day. Crusty, twisted bread stuffed with a savory filling; squares of pizza; wedges of local cheeses, strong and mild; perfect pears; crisp apples; a container of tiny, home-cured olives.
Our hotels were simple. Yet one night we dined under a wondrously painted ceiling. Another night, seated at a table overlooking the Roya, we were inspired to order trout. With that, the young son of the chef/proprietor ran, net in hand, to a holding pond at the edge of the river, dipped out three flapping specimens and before our eyes conked them on the head. Within minutes they were before us, turned to a golden brown and sprinkled with almonds.
If it had been hunting season, hare, wild turkey, venison and boar would have been on the menu, but we had to make do with a cuisine kissed by Italy: pigeon roasted in honey and surrounded by a necklace of sweet turnips; rabbit with olives; tender little gnocchi pillows, here called icumuli; green pasta made from Swiss chard; ravioli stuffed every which way; an abundance of vegetables, broccoli, eggplant, artichokes and tomatoes, zucchini flowers dipped in light batter and turned into a fritter; the sweetest of melons, doused with port and draped with pancetta.
Walking a pathway known as Chemin de Pierre-Rochard, a shortcut between Ste.-Agnes and Gorbio, we were within striking distance of the sea, our pace slowed by heat and intense humidity rising from it. We followed the winding Boulevard de Garavan into Menton: genteel, glorying in its gardens, yet with an interior medieval village as intriguing as any we’d recently walked.
At Menton our journey might well have ended. But we had one last day in mind. Rising early, we walked the seaside path to Monte Carlo. There, sweaty and disheveled, we strode into the glorious lobby of the Loews Hotel. We were whisked without delay to our rooms, where Champagne was waiting. Seated high above the Mediterranean, we sipped from crystal and ate nectarines, peaches and grapes. This time--"Ptui!"--we aimed our pits and seeds at the glistening white yachts of millionaires floating lazily below.
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GUIDEBOOK: Footloose in Maritime Alps
